“And where lies Catharines-town?”

“Nine miles beyond us, northward.”

“And the trail?”

“None, Loskiel, save for the maze of game trails where long leaps are made from tussock to swale, from root to rotting log across black pools of mud, and quivering quicksands whose depths are white as snow under the skin of mud, set with tarnished rainbow bubbles.”

“But—­ those who come after us, Mayaro!  The army—­ the wagons, horses, artillery, cattle—­ nay, the men themselves!  How are they to pass?”

He pointed east, then west:  “For six miles, flanking this swamp, run ridges of high hills northward.  By these must the army march to Catharines-town, the pioneers opening a road for the artillery.  This you shall make plain to Boyd presently, for he must march that way, marking plain the trail north on the eastern ridge of hills, then west.  Thus shall Boyd move to cut off Amochol from the lake, while you and I and the Oneidas and the Yellow Moth must thread this swamp and comb it clean to head him from the rivers south of us.”

“Is there a path along the ridge?”

“No path, Loskiel.  So Boyd shall march by compass, slowly, seeking over the level way, and open woods, with the artillery and wagons ever in his thoughts.  Six miles due north shall he march; then, where the hills end a swamp begins—­ thick, miry, set with maple, brier, and tamarack.  But through this he must blaze his trail, and the pioneers who are to follow shall lay their wagon-path across felled trees, northward still, across the forests that border the flats of Catharines-town; and then, still northward for a mile; and so swing west, severing the lake trail.  Thus we shall trap Amochol between us.”

Slowly we walked back together to the height of land, where our little party lay looking down at the dark country below.  I sat down beside Boyd, cleared from the soil the leaves for a little space, drew my knife, and with its point traced out the map.

He listened in silence, while I went over all that the Sagamore had taught me; and around us squatted our Indians, motionless, fiercely intent upon my every word and gesture.

“Today is Sunday,” I said.  “By this hour, Butler’s people should be in headlong flight.  Our army will not follow them at once, because it will take all day tomorrow for our men to destroy the corn along the Chemung.  But on Tuesday our army will surely march, laying waste the Indian towns and fields.  Therefore, giving them ample time for this, they should arrive at this spot on Wednesday.”

“I have so calculated,” said Boyd, listlessly.

“But Wednesday is the first day of September; and if we are to strike Amochol at all it must be done during the Onon-hou-aroria.  And that ends on Tuesday.  Therefore, must you move within the hour.  And by tomorrow evening you shall have blazed your hill-trail and shall be lying with your men beside the stream and across the lake trail, north of Catharines-town.”